The Dangerous Date Affair
by RoseLight
Summary: The agents guard a murder witness., but who will guard her heart?


THE DANGEROUS DATE AFFAIR

ACT I Nice Duty

The first time Napoleon Solo had seen her, her dress was torn, hair tangled, makeup smeared. She was splattered with blood and crying in great gulps. She had cleaned up rather nicely, he thought absently, as he listened to Waverly describe their protective detail.

Illya Kuryakin was new to the case, so he observed her quietly during the briefing. The international linguist was reduced to one word: zoftig. The intelligence that usually shone from her cornflower-blue eyes was swamped out by fear, haunted by the recent violence centered around her. Her vulnerability brought out strong protective instincts in the blond agent.

"You've chosen a dangerous but valiant path, Miss Sinclaire. I'm certain the authorities appreciate your cooperation," Waverly commended her.

"They murdered Danny Bryd in front of me. I can positively identify them, and provide motive and documentation." Her hand shook as she passed Waverly a thick envelope. "This is my full notarized statement, and research notes. Please keep it secure in case-for any reason, I'm not able to testify."

Waverly accepted the packet and held her hand, patting it. "There, now, Miss Sinclaire, we've taken no chances with your security. You'll have a bodyguard and a chaperone til the trial is over, then relocation and a new identity. Gentlemen..."

The assassination of her trusted source had shaken Colette Sinclaire to her professional and personal core. Under any other circumstance, she would've been scribbling copious notes, concentrating as Waverly made his dry recitation of the facts, and her mind racing ahead to form questions. Today all she could manage was to stare while consciousness drifted in and out of her body.

Napoleon touched her shoulder and she jumped.

"Sorry-" they said simultaneously.

"You were there," Colette suddenly recognized him.

"Yes, " Solo confirmed gently, but she was unwilling to pursue the subject.

"Mr. Waverly said one of you would be my bodyguard, and one would be my chaperone?"

"Chaperone, that would be me," Illya sighed. Always a bridesmaid...

But as Napoleon drove them across the river to an UNCLE safe house, stress and exhaustion caught up with the young woman and she fell deeply asleep on the Russian agent's shoulder.

"Nice duty, " Solo observed.

# # # # #

Illya woke her gently, gingerly, not willing to startle her any further. Solo helped her out of the car and into the two bedroom bungalow the trio would be sharing for several weeks. "Miss Sinclaire, you just get settled, and we'll have a look around."

"Settled?" she looked at him queerly. "Settled?" her voice rose an octave. "Here-" she dumped out the contents of her purse. "I'm settled. That's all I have left of my life. The feds have sealed my apartment and I'm never allowed back. My clothes, my computer, my cat-" she choked. "I'm sorry. I'm not really like this. Mr. Solo, tell me Danny Bryd did not die for the glory of my career."

Solo took her shoulders and gazed earnestly into her eyes. "Miss Sinclaire-Colette-you and Bryd were involved in much more than you can imagine. We are here to make certain your sacrifice is not in vain."

ACT II Lecture # 3

She woke, bolt upright, and screamed. Solo burst into the room, gun in hand, then reholstered when it was evident she was having a nightmare. He climbed onto the bed next to her and shook her gently. "Colette... Colette, OK, time to wake up. It's all right. Wake up, Colette.." he called to her softly and patted her face til she unscrunched her eyes and recognized him.

"Mr. Solo...?"

"We're in bed. Maybe you should call me Napoleon," he teased.

It was the first smile he had witnessed.

"You always bring your gun to bed with you, Napoleon?"

"That answer would require more research," he smiled, and popped back off her blankets. " C'mon, I've got just the thing to chase away the night-frights. Old family recipe."

He led her to the kitchen and proceeded to warm up some milk. "Now for the secret ingredient. No peeking." He stirred in a teaspoon of dark liquid. "Drink it all," he insisted.

"Mmmm..vanilla?"

"Til we were 18. Then we graduated to a quarter-cup of cognac."

"I'm over 18," Colette assured him.

"Yeah, but Illya guards the key to the liquor cabinet, and Waverly marks the bottles. Besides, I'm on duty."

She drained the cup and held it against her cheek. "Yknow, I've worked the city beat before. I've always protected my sources, always been careful. I didn't think it was unusual to meet at obscure places, at odd times...I'm one dangerous date." She looked at him glumly. "Your presence here is really superfluous. That rain of bullets killed me too. No source will ever trust me again. And a new identity? There goes my experience, my credibility, my reputation..."

Solo had gone through protection details before. The witnesses always had anger and regret. He let her talk it out. At least she was a writer and able to verbalize her distress and move on.

"And why should I have to turn my life upside down? I'm the good guy here!" She took a deep breath, and abruptly changed the subject. "So what were you doing at the scene?"

"No wonder you're such a good journalist...always with the questions..."

"Mr. Solo."

"Napoleon. I can't compromise our investigation. Let me just say, we've been watching certain folks for some time..."

Colette raised up, affronted. "The government is stalking journalists now?"

"No, don't get your first amendment up. Believe me, I'd rather stalk you than the usual lowlifes I'm assigned. How did you get involved in this, anyway?"

The reporter shook her head. "I'm still not sure what we uncovered. More than the usual corruption-in-high-places scandals. Something...insidious, and on the council level. I'm still putting pieces together. I guess I'm involved because I work toward the ultimate triumph of virtue. Do you think that's naive?"

"No, just charmingly old-fashioned."

"But you must believe, too, or why risk your life in this business?"

He shrugged. "Free season opera tickets, I guess. Finish your milk."

"My father was an English teacher..."she started drifting. "He worshipped words, and brought me up at the altar. For the first time I'm glad he's dead. I don't believe I'd have the courage to leave him behind forever. 'Words, Coco,' he'd say, that's true power. Words for inspiration, intimidation, instruction-"

"-and intimacy," Solo continued quietly. "Words, incendiary, and sometimes, inadequate…"

"My father never said that," she whispered.

Solo leaned forward, his lips traced her brow, her eyelids, her cheek, and lingered on the pulse in her throat.

They did not hear him slip in. "Eh, Napoleon, when you have completed your 'perimeter check' we need to talk."

They adjourned to the living room.

"You are too good at your job, Mr. Kuryakin," she chided shyly.

"Well, on this occasion, at least, I'm 2 out of 3." He carried in a suitcase and a box. "The feds are combing your computer for evidence, but I thought perhaps…"

"My clothes-and Lisette!" She hugged the calico kitten to her heart. "Oh, my Lisette! But how did you manage-my apartment was sealed-"

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin is a very resourceful and enterprising fellow," Solo confirmed his partner's talents.

Their witness flew into the startled agent's arms. "Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" She clung to Kuryakin as if he were her only anchor in the storm. He reached around tentatively to pat her back and say "there, there," or some such comforting nonsense when he felt the tension melt out of her body, her breathing warm and steady against his neck.

"You're quite welcome."

# # # # # #

Their charge took the boxes to her room, giving Illya an opportunity to scold. "Napoleon…"

"Hmm..?"

"Lecture # 3."

Solo looked quizzically at his partner. "Look both ways before-"

"No, that's lecture #6," Kuryakin said patiently. "#3 is Do not get personally involved-"

" '-or you'll lose your professional edge and endanger the mission'. Gotcha."

Illya sighed. "Napoleon, you are here because you are the best chance this girl has to stay alive to testify. And I am here-

"Because you are my best chance to avoid complications."

"Exactly. She testifies in two weeks. The feds will squirrel her away and you will never, never, ever see her again. Do not set yourself up for this fall. Do not hurt this woman. She has enough to bear, don't you think?"

"Don't you ever get tired of being right?"

He was rewarded with a rare Russian grin. "But I'm so very good at it."

ACT III "No trespassing"

"Miss Sinclaire, what are you doing?" Illya called up the stairs.

He found her sitting in the attic window, soaking up the dawn.

"Just my morning devotions."

"You should've told me. We are required to accompany you at all times."

"Is that really-" she swallowed the word 'necessary.' "Of course. I'm just accustomed to my solitude. I don't mean to make your job more difficult, especially when you've been so thoughtful. This has been a difficult time." The stress shone in her eyes.

"An understatement, I'm sure."

Colette needed a change of subject. She pulled her knees up to her chin, rested her head there, observing him. "I read you as a chauvinist, Mr. Kuryakin. 'If she were home scrubbing floors and having babies, she wouldn't be in this mess now'."

Illya had the grace to blush.

"It's OK. I've considered that myself recently," she admitted. "But you don't think a woman can be independent and retain her femininity." She stood up and challenged him. "OK, get me some flour and sugar and I'll whip up the best pineapple cake this side of the Allegheny. Or tell me your two favorite colors and I'll knit you a sweater."

"Cake, please." The Russian chose. " I prefer immediate gratification."

"Oh, thank God," Colette had been holding her breath. "Because, I do not knit. Not a bit do I knit. I do not knit a whit. I'm a real knit-wit." The couple trouped down stairs laughing.

And the blond chauvinist agent thought that the apron suited her very well

# # # # #

It had been Napoleon's turn to go to town. As he turned the key, he heard very disturbing sounds from inside.

"Mmm..mmm..hmm.." and something deep and guttural in Russian too low for him to make out. "Oh, Colette.." more muffles.

"Oh, I know it's sinful, but I really need this..." Colette murmured her pleasure.

"I feel guilty." It was his partner's voice. " Maybe we should have waited for Napoleon…."

"Oh, but it's better when it's hot. He can have some when he gets back. It'll be a nice surprise."

"More, please?...Oh, welcome home, Napoleon. " Illya waved his stupefied partner into the kitchen. "Come have the best pineapple cake this side of the Allegheny."

The cake incident broke up the tension from Romantic (who's kissing whom?) to Roomate-tic (who's hauling garbage?) When things became too claustrophobic, a Godzilla marathon devolved into a popcorn fight. Lisette's kittenish antics kept them amused. One night, Solo dug up a stack of platters from the 50's and he and Colette taught Illya a very credible jitterbug.

The agents made regular reports to Waverly, and cooperation with the federal agencies was unusually smooth. Notwithstanding the constant strain of being under a Thrush death warrant, household chores became routine.

# # # # #

Twilight. They leaned over the porch railing for fresh air, and to watch the moon rise. "Ever want to fly to the stars?" Colette asked dreamily.

"Every night this week."

She pulled back. "No fair, Solo. Please observe the "No trespassing" sign."

"I know. I'm sure Illya has pulled out his stop watch on us already."

"He's right. We all agreed," she reminded him.

Solo sighed. "Another time, another place..."

"You know that's not likely. If the feds do their job, you shouldn't even recognize me." She pulled back her long walnut hair. "What do you think? Wear it up, or cut it off? Blonder or darker? What color contacts?"

"Ask the Russian," Solo directed shortly. " He's the master of disguise."

"When we first met, you promised me the sacrifice would not be in vain. That's the only way I can do this," she tried to make Solo understand. " But I bet you didn't know you would be part of the sacrifice."

There were four loud knocks on the door. "Colette-bring your young man inside. We'll play a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit."

"Coming, Father," they chimed.

ACT IV "All I have to Give..."

"You look so cool, calm and confident up there," Solo was guarding her during the court recess.

"It's an act," Colette replied honestly.

"Maybe you should be an actress in your next life," he joked weakly.

"My next life…" she wondered, "which is right around the corner. How long…"

"Should be just another hour on the stand..." they both knew that was not what she was asking, and they both pretended to be satisfied with his answer.

"Now, while you're up there, just look directly at the prosecutor, no where else. And when you're under cross, just answer yes or no and keep your eyes on me, only me, understand?"

It would be difficult to look anywhere else, she mused sadly. I need to memorize every molecule of that face before-"Yes, McCoy prepped me pretty well. And after-"

Solo cleared his throat. "The feds will escort you right off the stand, take you out the back of the courthouse, and take you directly-well, wherever..." his voice faded.

"Ah. No long good-byes."

"Standard procedure."

"Of course."

Their silence said too much.

"I gave Illya my pineapple cake recipe."

Napoleon shook his head. "I warned you that man is lethal in an apron."

"And Mrs. Waverly adores Lisette-" her eyes were wide and bright and brimming now, her voice cracked. "And that's all I have to give-" she opened her empty arms to him, and he welcomed her for the last time.

"But you've given me hope, Colette," said Solo as he held her close. " Hope that there are still courageous souls who work and risk for justice. Sometimes I lose sight of that vision. Because of you, I can keep fighting a little longer."

"Toward the Ultimate Triumph of Virtue," she whispered.

# # # # #

For several months following the trial, Solo combed newspapers and checked UNCLE communications, not sure exactly what he was looking for… maybe just a hint of a brave young reporter or actress or English teacher fighting Toward The Ultimate Triumph Of Virtue.

But the world had a habit of calling him back to duty. Mr. Waverly pinned up a notice about free calico kittens. Illya attempted to bake pineapple cake-twice-and then was banned from the lab.

On the first anniversary of the Thrush convictions, Illya dropped by Solo's office with a coded communication in his hand, and an intrigued look on his face.

"This came addressed to you, through section 5," he handed Solo the yellow sheet. "It appears to be a rendezvous...date, time, place. But we could not decipher the tagline: TTUTOV. Mean anything to you?"

Napoleon turned it over in his head, stared at the typed message. A warm light stole across his face. "Yeah...yeah. It means I'm going to Kansas City for a few days..." He jingled his keys and whistled down the hall.

finis


End file.
